Of Masks and Chains
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: They had their masks; the roles they committed to in an attempt to hide the tedious breaking of themselves. Glimpses into the life of Hunting under Abraham's hand.


Well...this is the first time I actually wrote Hunting, which was an interesting process, to say the least. (I hope the reviewer who asked for this is pleased, you know who you are, I just didn't want to violate privacy.) Honestly, I don't see Hunting as such a bad guy. He was burdened with the expectation of being phenomenal once Macon betrayed the family. And Silas also shows up, who I don't see as bad, either.

You'll have to tell me your opinions after reading this. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine

Spoilers: Beautiful Creatures & Beautiful Darkness

* * *

They had their roles. Macon the martyr, fading in the glow of flames. Leah the rebel, lending herself to no man. And him, the follower, bound to the glory that followed his family. Thinking back on it, he should have seen the way this would end. He should have known something was *odd*, there was a reason no one had attempted such radical fears before.

The thrill of it, though, the _promise _of a life where he was _better _than Macon. For once, he would no longer live in his brother's shadow.

He had proven his loyalty to the cause, murdered his girlfriend in the chance of showing just how far he would go. It had hurt, watching the betrayal flare in her eyes, the fear, and seeing the life seep from her in slick surges. It hurt more than he had anticipated.

They had accepted him with open arms, something he had assumed was a great accomplishment.

_Abraham's arm around his shoulder, explaining the pliable rules. Silas, his father, standing barely out of shadow, his face more strained than Hunting had ever seen. A phantom pang pulls at the back of his mind. He attributes it to anticipation. "Well, Silas, at least one of your children are worth something." The small nod his father gives is weak._

It wasn't until later that he saw his mistake.

_Silas is once again in the back, his eyes subtly pleading as they have been for days. Weeks. Months, maybe. Hunting thinks he would notice the passing of years, but he doesn't know. Abraham leaves them alone for a 'familial lecture'. The moment the door clicks shut, Silas moves his finger to his lips gently. Five seconds later, his hand drops. Hunting's brow furrows. "Father-"_

_"Don't, don't call me that." His voice shakes. He composes himself in a shivering breath. "I will be brief, Hunting." His eyes close for a brief moment, and his lips move but no sound escapes. "I didn't expect...not in my worst nightmares...for you to follow me here." Something clicks. _One of your sons is worth something. _Silas's fingers quiver. "After everything I did, I assumed you were driven from the cause." His lips tighten into an almost grimace. "I am sorry, Hunting, but you were wr-"_

_"I chose family," Hunting allows. A choked sound forces its way from Silas's pale lips._

_"Family's often follow tainted paths, Hunting." Suddenly, Silas's face shifts into its subdued disdain. Hunting's foot edges forward, as though he's going to ask Silas. The door opens not three seconds later._

Abraham confuses his confounded nature after the talk with curiosity. The fear was brilliant. Whatever had happened in the time Silas stayed with Abraham was mind-altering. The forward man he knew as father was barely an echo. The abuse Hunting and Macon had endured at the hand of him was horrifying, but the man was clearly broken. Silas's drive couldn't have been matched and now it flickered in dying embers. What would become of him?

When Macon fell for that Mortal chit, Hunting couldn't have been more excited.

_The disappointment is clear in Abraham's face, written glaringly obvious in the heaviness of his brow, the dark fire alight in his eyes. Even Silas has the dignity to seem perturbed. "Macon fell in love...with a Mortal." Hunting flinches slightly._

_"A mistake he will regret eventually, Abraham." Silas's voice is quiet. Slowly, Hunting's mind starts clumsily throwing theories together. There is only one way these relationships end. Someone dies. Someone is killed against their will, be it by their partner's hand or by their species. Macon is smart, but he can't deny his nature. Soon, he hoped, Macon would be joining the Dark._

Part of him wished Macon to run. Flee. Build barriers and never speak or think of him again. Macon was magnetic. He may have been a cruelly isolated man, but he could persuade in a way Hunting never learned. Abraham would want him for that. Part of him wept for the chance of seeing his brother, his pillar of strength, while another shivered in the idea of watching him break.

* * *

He remembered empty words. Teasing, taunting lines that lacked fire in his mind. _You can't change what you are. _The moral was correct to some extent. They were both inexplicably bound to their separate roles, now. He remembered biting into flesh, the sweet blood making him want to retch. Draining his brother of life in the most humane way possible. He remembered Traveling, mostly by his own doing, to keep Macon's ruse alive. He remembered uncertainty as Macon's form relaxed against his, understanding he underestimated how much he could take. He remembered smoke stinging eyes.

After, in the safety of some house they owned, he broke. He remembered scrubbing his sweater until the threads tore. He remembered dry heaving, his mind revolting against what, instinctually, was welcomed. He remembered sobbing into his hands, no tears, but shivers raking his body. He knew he had washed his hands far too many times, the skin rubbed raw, but he could still see blood. He remembered considering life and death and laughing ruefully, noticing that somehow his brother's impact finally hit him. He knew he had run himself nearly to the ground, fixed on the idea of purging his brother's blood from him by any means. He remembered collapsing, his eyes fluttering in a strained attempt to stay focused, voices and screams echoing in his thoughts.

* * *

Something had to be said of the composure Hunting learned to keep. As his brother stood not ten yards from him, his form clearly real, he had bit out a rough sentence. "Killed you once, I'll kill you twice." The shock that he saw in Macon's green eyes told him he misunderstood. He couldn't have been alive. He must have been dreaming. Hallucinating something of nightmares. _He_ was dead. A memory had stood place with Hunting for months, clearly visible at almost every hour. He had killed the memory. And now he must have been back.

It wasn't until Hunting saw Leah behind Macon that he understood Macon was real. The ache that rolled through him was bitterly strong. He chose to stay rather detached throughout the event, Traveling before anyone took care to notice.

Memories danced across his thoughts when dawn bares herself. _An empty voice reprimands him for choosing family. _One of your sons is worth something._ A faint tremble in his father's hands._ Hunting's fingers quivered against his palm.

They had roles. Masks they wore to show the public what was needed. Macon, the martyr, his fate driving him to an untimely end. Leah, the rebel, her attitude allowing her to never conform to an order. And him, the follower, his choice rendering him disappointed and chained to a cause he regretted.


End file.
